


Run To You

by salamoonder



Series: losing their divinity [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Book compliant, Crying, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Sickfic, Sleepy Cuddles, i'm just indulgent okay, this may have a sequel idk yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 08:11:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19314145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamoonder/pseuds/salamoonder
Summary: “Crowley,” Aziraphale tries, now that his heart isn’t beating quite so fast and Crowley is in a proper bed, “what happened?”“Nothing. Think ‘m sssick,” Crowley manages thickly.“Sick?” Aziraphale yelps shrilly, and Crowley curls in on himself. “Sorry, dear--it’s just--”“Angelsss,” says Crowley slowly, “ don’ get sssick. An’ neither do demonsss.”“Yes, exactly,” says Aziraphale, somewhat flustered.“ ‘m ssstill sssick,” says Crowley, helpfully.“Yes, I know, dear, I know.”





	Run To You

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [such selfish prayers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12996942) by [Lvslie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lvslie/pseuds/Lvslie). 



> This work was heavily inspired by both the fic and the podfic such selfish prayers and I highly encourage everyone who reads this to read/listen to that as well. Thank you so much @lvslie for letting me publish this :) It was also somewhat inspired by the Pentatonix song for which it was named.

Crowley’s been fighting back a...a something. For a few weeks now. A noise, a voice, in the back of his head. A deep ache in his chest. It’s been a long century, and the transgressions of the human race drag at his eyelids like lead weights. All he wants to do is sleep and heal.

But if an angel can watch the horror of earth without batting an eye, well...Crowley’’ll be damned if he’ll roll over and give up. Well, more damned than he usually is.

He squints up at the sky as the first drop of rain spatters across his wrist. Even through his sunglasses the clouds are that painfully bright white that seems to coat everything before an oncoming storm.

He looks down. The ducks quack at him impatiently. The pond shimmers and ripples with each new raindrop.

He looks out, across the park. Across the street.

Still no sign of Aziraphale.

Rather distractedly, he pulls the plastic bag of bread he’s brought out of his pocket, and begins to feed the ducks. It’s not a bad day--not yet--but it’s not a particularly good one, either. He blinks tiredly, and in between the second it takes for his eyelids to close and for them to snap open fully all the color drains out of the world.

He considers just calling him, but--well. There are few things Crowley hates more than appearing desperate. Or clingy. Or in need of anything, really. And it’s a nice day.

Well, no it’s not. But it’s not a terrible day.

Well, not too terrible.

Crowley stands in front of the pond and closes his eyes. And then a second later when he opens them, he can’t see. His eyes sting and immediately fill with water; everything is blurred and flooded and objectively, yes, he can hear the roar of thousands of gallons of water hitting the earth but he can’t quite feel it, and that’s when it occurs to him that possibly it had been longer than just a second that his eyes were closed for. He fumbles for his pocket watch. Remembers the rain. Stops.

And then an overwhelming sense of exhaustion and despair and plain old….deadness washes over him and he shakes the water out of his eyes for long enough to look around for Aziraphale one last time. There’s not a feather of him.

Crowley wraps his arms around himself, tucks his head down, and runs blindly back to the Bentley. Drives back to his flat with the quiet roar of rain pounding against the shining metal. Stumbles inside, and collapses on the couch.

He’s shivering.

* * *

Aziraphale quietly scribbles a note in the margins of a college ruled notebook: an addition to an earlier theory. As the pen lifts off the paper and the ink bleeds the smallest bit into a feather instead of a straight line, he notices something.

It had been quiet when he started reading. Now there’s a sound coming from outside.

It takes him a moment to snap out of research mode and realize that it’s raining, and that if it’s raining they can’t go to the duck pond, and anyway there’s no point in going now because--

Aziraphale looks at the quietly shuddering clock on his wall and realizes that he was supposed to have met Crowley a full hour ago. When did the rain start? Two hours ago? Ten minutes ago? An icy feeling of guilt begins to spread from the pit of his stomach outwards. He half stands, stops.

Surely he had stayed home?

For a moment he’s caught in indecision, and then he stands fully, picks up the phone off the wall. Dials Crowley.

He listens to the dial tone amidst the rain. Dials again. Nothing. Just an odd beeping as the call ends.

Aziraphale grabs his coat off the wall and heads out through the bookshop.

* * *

Crowley’s not even sure if he belongs to his body anymore. His head is pounding so hard he’s sure it’s a real, external sound, like the tolling of a bell. A death knell. He can’t hear anything else, can’t feel anything except the sensation of his chest tightening until he doesn’t know what air is anymore.

Has he gone back to hell? Did something happen to his body that he somehow didn’t notice?

He isn’t sure and he’s not sure if he wants to be sure. Mostly what he wants is for everything to be quiet. For everything to be warm. Hell--  
Heaven--Somewhere, he’s so cold.

He’s vaguely aware of something trying to reach him through the haze of pain and confusion and noise. Something familiar.

“Crowley?”

“Nnnhg….”

Even the whimper coming from the back of his throat is painful.

“Crowley, dear, what happened?”

“ _Hurtsss_ ,” Crowley chokes, unable to further articulate, and then he’s aware of his body again, just for a moment, as a cool hand comes to rest on his forehead.

“Goodness, you’re burning up.”

Burning up? Crowley has never been colder. Even hell isn’t this cold, he thinks hazily.

He opens his eyes and the dull gray light of the rain through the closed curtains is the brightest thing he’s ever seen. “ ‘ziraphale,” he groans. “...sssomething...not right.”

* * *

Fear spreads, icy and irrational, from the center of Aziraphale’s chest outwards. There’s nothing externally wrong with Crowley; he doesn’t appear injured in the slightest, and he shows no signs of discorporating. And yet there he is, curled in on himself in pain, barely able to string words together. He reaches instinctively for Crowley’s hand, finds it occupied in gripping white knuckled at the sleeves of beat up leather jacket, and feels a different kind of fear take hold of him.

“My dear,” he whispers, unsure that Crowley can even hear him, “I will fix this. It’s alright. You’re....you’re going to be alright.”

“Angel, _please_ ,” Crowley gasps, and Aziraphale goes into a shocked stillness as Crowley’s wings manifest around him, drawing them both into a cocoon of feathers. Even his wings are trembling; as Aziraphale reaches out to stroke the long primaries Crowley lets out a low whimper. Aziraphale sets his jaw; whatever has happened to Crowley, it’s affecting all of him.

A sort of helplessness settles over Aziraphale; nothing like this has ever happened before. He can perceive every atom of his body, every rushing electron holding him to Earth, all buzzing and humming uselessly. Part of him wants to get up, to go make tea, to do _something, anything,_ but Crowley must sense his intentions because he almost half sits up and loosens his grip on his jacket with some effort.

“Please….don’t leave me…” he manages, and Aziraphale feels some part of him break as he launches himself at Crowley’s shivering form, gathering the demon to his chest, almost angry now. Crowley buries his face in the shoulder of Aziraphale’s coat as he scoops him up and lets out a shuddering sigh.

“There, there, my dear, we will get this sorted,” says Aziraphale briskly, willing the blush that he knows must be appearing on his face to leave well enough alone. “Let’s just get you to bed.”

Finding Crowley’s bedroom is a bit of a shot in the dark. Aziraphale is relieved when the third door he nudges open contains a well rumpled king sized bed. He lays Crowley down just long enough to climb onto the bed himself and wrap his body firmly around Crowley’s.

He feels much smaller, all of a sudden.

Not that Aziraphale would have any sort of prior idea of how Crowley’s body feels; that would be ridiculous. The difference in Crowley’s perceived size and the way he felt right now was pure...speculation. Speculation of the way it would feel to hold Crowley.

Aziraphale groans softly to himself, and the demon in his arms rests his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tries, now that his heart isn’t beating quite so fast and Crowley is in a proper bed, “what happened?”

“Nothing. Think ‘m sssick,” Crowley manages thickly.

“ _Sick?_ ” Aziraphale yelps shrilly, and Crowley curls in on himself. “Sorry, dear--it’s just--”

“Angelsss,” says Crowley slowly, “ don’ get sssick. An’ neither do demonsss.”

“Yes, exactly,” says Aziraphale, somewhat flustered.

“ ‘m ssstill sssick,” says Crowley, helpfully.

“Yes, I _know_ , dear, I know.”

* * *

Crowley feels like he doesn’t belong to his own skin. Like he should’ve discorporated, but can’t seem to let go of his body. Like he’s clinging on to a shed skin.

“Angel?” he murmurs. Nothing.

He opens his eyes blearily but there’s no warm glow on the bed beside him, just the faint scent of clean feathers and powdered sugar. He lets his hand rove over the spot where Aziraphale should be, just to make sure, but it’s obvious that Aziraphale is gone.

He curls his hand into a fist, trying to crush the sudden sharp spear of loneliness and desperation that’s seemed to bury itself in his heart.

* * *

Aziraphale clears his throat. It’s different this time around, but he’s no less apprehensive.

“I request an audience with the Almighty,” he announces to his empty bookshop. His voice is shaking. He clears his throat again in some vain attempt to steady it. “Please.”

There’s no response, not the slightest flicker of fire or rumble of thunder. Aziraphale crosses his arms and huffs. “Right,” he mutters. “ _Right._ ” In another moment he’s spread his wings and is on his way up to heaven.

He hasn’t gone back, not since the nonapocalypse. He didn’t see any reason to. It wasn’t as though he made regular visits anyway; he had been stationed on Earth for a solid 6,000 years and he saw no reason as to why that would have changed. And when he got to heaven it was clear to him that he’d been correct in thinking so.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, had changed. Angels hurried past him without even glancing at him. It was as though everything in heaven had gone the same as on Earth: a vague sense of unease followed by a quick forgetting. Aziraphale took a deep breath, and turned down a hallway. Perhaps this would be easier than he had originally thought.

It takes him ages to get to the office, especially as he keeps flinching every time an angel meets his eye, but they merely nod and keep walking. By the time he gets to Ramiel’s room, his eyes are glued to the spotless celestial floor and he can feel a frustrated blush creeping under his skin. He can’t be bothered to miracle it away so instead he plants himself in front of the door, squares his shoulders, and knocks.

There’s a startled scrabble from inside, followed by a “Uh, come in? I think?” that almost, but not quite, makes Aziraphale smile. Still the same old Ramiel.

He opens the door slowly as the scrabbling continues, revealing a somewhat disheveled angel trying to sort through a mountain of papers.

Aziraphale wonders for a moment if he caught him napping at his desk before he remembers: angels don’t sleep. (Nor do they eat, technically, or dance, but Aziraphale has elected to ignore himself for the moment).

“Ramiel,” he says, as professionally as he can, “I--I need your help.”

Ramiel adjusts his wire rimmed glasses and gives Aziraphale a too-knowing look. “I thought you might.” He stands up, doing a more thorough once over. “Happened so soon, hm?”

“What?” asks Aziraphale, suddenly caught entirely off guard. “I--what has?”

Ramiel sighs and sifts through a couple more papers. “Don’t play dumb, Aziraphale, why else would you be here? You’re beginning to take on a human nature.”

Aziraphale’s heart stops dead.

Then he says quietly, “Ah. Yes. Of course.”

The angel of hope makes a considering noise deep in his throat and begins to circle him--not menacingly, but in an appraising sort of way, like someone admiring a car, or perhaps a showhorse. “What’s been happening?” he asks earnestly. “When did you realize?”

"Er, I suppose...I noticed I started feeling…” Aziraphale closes his eyes so he won’t have to look at Ramiel circling. “sick,” he finishes. “I suppose a human would call it feverish.”

He thinks back to Crowley on the couch, to the way his wings had manifested and spread around them both. “And...alone. Erm.” He rolls his shoulders back. “Lonely, I think.”

Ramiel’s face goes from fascinated to apprehensive in the space of a second. “I suppose you want help.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale admits, and the other angel softens into something more like concern.

“Well...” he circles back to his desk. “I’m afraid I can’t give you too much information, I’ve only observed humans from afar, you know, you’ve always been boots on the ground...and of course this is...somewhat unprecedented.” He drops his voice to a hushed whisper. “Some of us didn’t think you were ever coming back.”

Aziraphale swallows and tries to make himself smile. “Yes, well.” He looks down at his hands. “Here I am.”

Ramiel thumps him on the back with forced enthusiasm, clearly trying to alleviate some tension. “What do you want to know?”

Aziraphale’s taken straight back to last night, Crowley clinging so tightly to him that he’s unsure where one body starts and the other begins; to his labored breath, the barest slits of his pupils just visible in the half light. Fear suddenly seizes his heart.

“Well, I suppose, the main thing is--will it--I mean, can I...become mortal? Is that possible?”

Ramiel presses his lips together. “I don’t think so. I would imagine--well, the Almighty is the only one who can change the actual nature of a thing. I did say you were taking on human traits. Not becoming human.” He swallows. “I think. I will have to look into it further. As I sad...unprecedented, all of it.”

“Right,” says Aziraphale bruskely. “Well. Is there anything I can do to...help it?”

“Help…” muses Ramiel. “Hm. I do have a theory.”

* * *

 The next time Crowley wakes up, it’s to soft, self deprecating apologies filled with halts where he assumes swears would’ve otherwise presented themselves, and then quite suddenly, to a hand in his hair. There’s another on his chest now, light as featherdown, like it’s worried it will frighten away his heartbeat.

Crowley stifles a cough and looks up into the very cross, very upset face of Aziraphale.

“I’ve been so _stupid_ , I just panicked, Crowley, I don’t know what I was thinking, I--”

“ ‘Ziraphale,” Crowley murmurs sleepily. “Y’know I can hear you...right?”

He watches the angel’s eyes widen, and then a look almost like shame passes over him. He draws his mouth together and tentatively removes his hand from Crowley’s hair--but not his chest. “Yes, I--yes, Crowley.”

“What’re you so _fussed_ about?” he asks, somewhat fuzzy on the events of the past night and feeling considerably better. His limbs ache and his head begs for quiet, but he doesn’t feel like scratching his skin off anymore.

Aziraphale visibly swallows, and then bursts into tears.

Crowley sits straight up, ignoring the pounding in his head and catching Aziraphale’s hand as it falls away from his chest. “Aziraphale?”

“I--oh, dear, I’m sorry, Crowley, I…” Aziraphale sniffles, clambers further onto the bed.

“Angel.” says Crowley, soft but firm. “What’s the matter?”

Aziraphale pulls a handkerchief from one of his many pockets and Crowley takes it from him, swiping the tears away from his face with the concentration and tenderness of an artist.

“I thought I’d lost you, dear,” says Aziraphale softly. “only for a moment, but...well, it was terribly thoughtless of me to leave you here in this state, I just panicked, and, well--”

“Why would you have lost me?” Crowley asks, genuinely bewildered.

Aziraphale manages a very slight scoff, and Crowley relaxes a bit. “You were a bit of a mess yesterday,” he says, rather severely.

Crowley blinks slowly and twines his fingers through Aziraphale’s. “I’m sorry,” he says slowly. “I might’ve...forgotten,” he admits. Aziraphale lets out a strangled half sob. He sounds almost annoyed.

“Forgotten?” he splutters.

Crowley shrugs. Aziraphale _humphs_. “Well. Never mind that now, you are still sick, dear, even if you’ve forgotten.”

“I’m fine--” Crowley protests, and begins to stand up to prove it, tossing the handkerchief on the bed, but Aziraphale places a hand on his shoulder and guides him forcefully back down. It doesn’t take much force, however, as attempting to stand makes Crowley so dizzy he has to close his eyes for a moment.

“You’re not fine until I say you’re fine. I’m making cocoa,” Aziraphale announces bruskely.

Before Crowley can even open his eyes again, he can hear Aziraphale leaving the room. He takes a deep breath, tastes Aziraphale’s scent on the air, breathes in the smell of greens and damp soil from the plants in the hallway. He opens his eyes and stares down at his hands.

He feels...small inside, somehow.

When Aziraphale gets back, having put the milk on the stovetop, it’s as though someone has thrown a bucket of cold water over Crowley’s  
emotions. He’s subdued, muted down to blacks and whites and grays.

“Angel,” he asks softly. Aziraphale climbs into the bed beside him, seemingly somewhat recovered. There’s no signs of his earlier outburst, anyway.

“Yes, Crowley?”

“You know what’s wrong with me.” This one’s not a question.

Aziraphale hesitates. Then: “Yes,” he admits slowly.

Crowley just looks at him, expectant, and Aziraphale sighs. “I went to heaven. Talked to--well. He’s always had an interest in Earthly affairs. Only from a distance. Nothing like us, you understand. Wasn’t--wasn’t part of the plan. Well.” He huffs tiredly, and Crowley leans over to rest his head on his shoulder. Aziraphale is warm, and Crowley is too exhausted and sore to much question his own actions. Aziraphale stumbles somewhat, but continues.

“He thinks...believes, I mean...ever since the apocalypse did not happen, you and I, we’ve…” He swallows. “We took our own side, apart from heaven and hell, and, well. He thinks you’re... _we’re_...taking on some aspects of a human nature.”

Crowley looks up at him in bewilderment, but Aziraphale’s staring firmly ahead at the wall. “He didn’t have much to offer, but he did tell me that we may begin to get...sick. As humans. That we might feel things more deeply, the way a being without the context of eternity might.” Aziraphale pauses to close his eyes, looking utterly exhausted. “Well, actually, he thinks it’s just me. I don’t think heaven really has any idea that we--I mean.”

Despite the implications of this new revelation, Crowley allows himself a lazy smirk. “We what, angel?”

“You know very well _what_ ,” snaps Aziraphale, blushing furiously. “And anyway, the important part is that he did have some idea as to how to keep you from getting sick. Or at least how to help once you are sick.”

“ ‘N how’s that?” Crowley asks, profoundly sleepy and frankly too worn out to fully process this new information.

Aziraphale bites his lip. “I really am sorry, dear, it should have been obvious to me to begin with--it’s a human ailment, thus, it must be treated with human methods.” He turns an unsubtle shade of pink. “Hence...the cocoa. I’ve already picked up some medication as well, and...sick humans do tend to do much better alongside a companion, I’ve noticed.” He spares Crowley a quick glance and then goes right back to staring at the wall.  
“That might be nice,” Crowley says quietly, and then, wordlessly, almost reverently, tucks himself against Aziraphale’s chest, and closes his eyes.

Aziraphale exhales--in relief, Crowley thinks--and then there’s a hand in his hair again. “I was rather hoping it would be.”


End file.
